


If the World is So Small

by stardropdream



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Keith (Voltron), Coming of Age, Existential Angst, Farmer Shiro (Voltron), First Kiss, Getting Together, Grocery Store Owner Keith (Voltron), Happy Ending, Insecure Keith (Voltron), Insecure Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25530019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: After several years of working, Keith's fallen into a routine. He works, he goes home, rinse and repeat. He doesn't really make friends and he's certainly not painting the way he used to. His life is boring, unchanging.And then Shiro, the cute farmer who delivers produce to his store, invites him to a party.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 131
Kudos: 349





	If the World is So Small

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leftishark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leftishark/gifts).



> This is a gift for [Sharki](https://twitter.com/leftishark_), who was very kind and enabled me a fic idea I've been sitting on for ages based off my own life lol. So, think of this as a very belated entry into the Local Sheith idea (where Shiro and Keith hang out in your hometown) and/or the niche AU based off your own life. 
> 
> In this fic, almost everything in it is based off real places. Everything's been renamed, but this is basically my hometown. The tags look way more dramatic then they are, I promise lol. I struggled to find the right tags for this. There's some early-to-mid-20s existential angst thrown in, just for good flavor, and if we're going to base a fic off my life might as well include the millennial angst, too. (And thank you to Sharki, Sarah, and Janel for helping me sort through some of the ideas in this.) 
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SHARKI! ♥♥♥ idk if this is what you had in mind but I hope you like it!
> 
> Finally, a huge thank you to [Meg](https://twitter.com/kedawen) for reading through this and being an excellent beta as usual. ♥

It’s a beautiful morning in his windswept island town and Keith needs to re-organize the damn beer cooler. 

It’s the daily dreaded task. The general store is much too small to justify more than one employee working at a time, which means that whenever the beer cooler starts to empty, he has to sprint inside the cooler, quickly resupply, and hurry back to the front before any customers come in. 

Juggling tasks is a losing battle, he knows, but Keith’s gotten fairly good at sprinting. 

Keith hurries to the back of the store, ducking behind the curtain to the employees-only section so he can slip into the beer cooler and restock the massive eighteen-packs as well as the micro-brews from around the region. He’s hit with a blast of cold air as he works, hefting up the boxes of six-packs, moving as quickly as he can to stave off the chill and finish his task before any customers try to waltz out of an unattended store with an armful of groceries.

No one’s done that yet— most of Keith’s customers are geriatrics with self-proclaimed high morality— but it doesn’t stop Keith from being paranoid that _eventually_ it’s going to happen. He can’t be lax. 

It’s also a bad look, he knows, to walk into a store and not be greeted. He’s done enough rudimentary business research to know about the importance of attractive end-caps, putting milk at the back of the store, and making eye contact with customers as they enter. 

Really, after graduating college, Keith never expected this would be his life— running a general store with his mother. A mother he’s only known for a few years now, at that. She’d asked for his help a few months into their tentative meetings over coffee. Well, she hadn’t really asked— he’s gotten to know Krolia well enough to know she wouldn’t want to burden Keith with the actual question— but Keith read between the lines. 

_I can help her for a few months,_ he’d thought at he time. That’d been three years ago and he’s been in Redbank ever since. 

Keith doesn’t mind his job. Far from it. He takes pride in helping his mother run a small business and the building has its charm. It’s at least _something_ he can do.

He thinks of his sketchbook tucked beneath the front counter, untouched so far this morning. 

Yeah, his job might not be glamorous— but at least he’s doing something. Helping in his own way. Making a difference, however small. 

Keith and Krolia moved together to the sleepy town of Redbank, population three hundred, and opened the only general store for miles in either direction, located on the two-lane highway running up the full length of the island. It’d been a historical building, built literally one hundred years ago, and it shows. 

The problem with a historical store, of course, is that everyone has something to say about how things _used to be._

_The owners used to sell cheese right off this cheese-wheel!_ someone told him last week, gesturing to the antique cheese wheel displayed in the window. Nobody really wants to listen to how that’s absolutely against health codes.

_The owners used to sell candy bars for only a penny!_ someone else told him a few days ago. Never mind inflation, apparently. 

_And why don’t you have (insert your obscure product that nobody else wants here)? The old owners used to!_ Never mind that nobody wants to order a product only one person might buy, maybe, and probably won’t after seeing the price.

_What do you mean you don’t have (whatever product) today? The old owners always—_ Never mind they live on a goddamn island and their wholesale distributor only delivers once a week. If you don’t order something that week, you’re shit out of luck until next Monday.

Speaking of, Keith needs to run through his stock and make an order before the end of the day. 

He finishes shoving in eighteen-packs of Busch Lite and sprints back to the front of the store just as the bell over the door rings and one of his regulars comes in. She’s one of the kinder ones, smiling and nodding to him as Keith tries to catch his breath. She’s not even one of the ones who gives Keith a dirty look for daring to sit in a chair behind his counter while working the register, as if the only way he can be productive is if he’s on his feet all day. 

Truthfully, Keith rarely sits. If he’s not ringing up customers, he’s restocking, or he’s sweeping, or he’s reorganizing, or he’s placing orders, or he’s helping the older folks with their groceries, or he’s brewing more drip coffee, or he’s unlocking the ice chest outside so someone can buy some ice, or whatever else it is that he needs to do. 

When he first started working here, he thought he’d only have to man the register. He brought his sketchbook with him so he could doodle in his spare time. He has pages and pages of quick gesture drawings, capturing the likeness of customers as they walk through the door. 

The reality, of course, leaves his sketchbook collecting dust most of the time. 

It’s for the best, he figures. He was never that good at drawing, anyway. The fancy art school that accepted him on full scholarship wasted their money on him and he has little to show for his college education. 

While he waits for his regular to finish her shopping, he sells a few folks some cigarettes, ignoring their grumblings at the price or when he asks for ID. Someone asks him when he’s going to start selling vapes. Keith does not dignify it with a response. 

Keith looks out the front windows of the store, the massive banks of them, single-pane and original to the building— a pain for the heating bill in the winter, but absolutely gorgeous— and looks across the highway and towards Red Lion Passage. 

Really, he can’t beat this view. He has a daily unhindered look towards the roiling waters and the distant mountains on the mainland. He has a perfect view of Baby Island, too, just a small outcropping of rock where the seals like to hang out. Sometimes, when he’s sweeping outside and there are no cars whizzing down the highway, he can hear them vocalizing. 

Keith stares out the window just in time to see a familiar black pickup truck, dusty from backroads, rumble to a stop outside the front door. Keith’s heart leaps as he watches Shiro park his truck and climb out.

He is, of course, casually devastating and stupidly handsome. He always looks stupidly handsome in his stupid straw hat covering his silver hair, his shirt sweat-damp and clinging, his pants covered in mud. He looks sunburned today, understandably so— plenty to do on his farm and the sun’s been shining bright the last few days. 

He's gorgeous. Keith’s fingers itch to draw him. 

Shiro spots him through the windows and waves, grinning. Keith waves back, feeling foolish, his heart beating hard in his chest. Shiro rounds to the back of his truck and grabs Keith’s delivery for the day.

Yes, this is Keith’s favorite part— the local vendors. 

The Redbank Store is the only store for miles. There’s a chain grocery store north and south of them in the next towns over but suggesting to Redbank residents that they can take the bus for ten miles south or fifteen miles north is like asking them to travel across the country for milk. Keith’s pretty sure that most of the residents of Redbank wept for joy when they learned their beloved general store was reopening after years of vacancy.

Since then, Keith and his mom have done the best they can for themselves, building up a strong clientele with general store staples, plenty of beer, and a wide array of local products. Krolia’s done most of that legwork herself, contacting local businesses to showcase their wares— local honey, vegetables and fruits, beauty products, cheeses, apparel, plants, kombucha, coffee, bread. Daibazaal Island has a massive artist presence and it shows in the artisan goods. 

But Shiro— and the farm he works on— is Keith’s favorite, and not just because Shiro always seems genuinely happy to see him whenever he stops by. 

“Hey, Keith!” Shiro says with a grin as Keith grabs the door for him, holding it open as Shiro walks in, carrying the giant box of produce. “Same spot as usual?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, following Shiro as he carries his order towards the bench on the other side of the door, opposite Keith’s register— where some of his regulars sit and drink their coffee in the mornings while Keith sweeps— and plops it down. 

He leaves Keith to grab a few more boxes, carrying them all in effortlessly. His biceps flex. Keith tries very hard not to stare.

“You ordered a lot this week!” Shiro says. 

“Your apples are a huge hit,” Keith says, and that much is true. Shiro sells the farm’s produce on the weekends at the farmer markets, but Keith knows his regulars love to be able to pop over to the Redbank Store whenever they need something during the week. The apples especially have been flying off the shelves, far more than any other produce Keith’s store supplies. 

People just really love apples. 

Shiro opens each box so Keith can inspect and check off each item on the invoice. It’s apple season and apples are Altea Farm’s specialty (according to Shiro). Keith’s been ordering more and more each passing season. Today, there’s Honeycrisps, Johnny Reds, Lady Alteas, and Opalescent Yellows glimmering up from their boxes. 

“Everything in order?” Shiro asks as Keith finishes checking. 

“I never actually need to check,” Keith says. “You’re meticulous.” 

“Anything for my favorite customer,” Shiro says with a dazzling smile. 

Keith blushes, snorting out a soft breath. “I bet you say that to all the stores.” 

“Maybe,” Shiro agrees. “But I mean it with you.” 

Keith blushes deeper and turns back towards his register, mumbling about grabbing him his check. 

He opens the register and digs underneath the money tray, pulling out one of the store’s checks, pre-signed by Krolia. Keith copies over the information diligently and makes a copy with the scanner before handing it over to Shiro. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says and folds the check and slips it into his pocket. 

And then, just as he always does, he lingers. He folds his arms on the counter and leans. Keith tries to be casual, sitting down on his chair and fiddling with his hair. 

“Good day so far?” Shiro asks.

“Slow,” Keith says. He wants to laugh; that’s what he _always_ says when Shiro asks, but truthfully, it’s always the case— business is always slow. 

Shiro grins and it’s stunning. 

“Better now that you’re here,” Keith says, hoping it sounds teasing and not overly earnest.

Shiro’s cheeks turn pink and his smile brightens. “I bet you say that to all your vendors.” 

Keith scoffs. “No way. Have you _met_ Coran? He never shuts up— his honey is almost not worth it.” 

Shiro laughs. “He usually sets his booth up next to mine at the farmer’s market. So, yes, I know exactly what you mean.” 

Keith wishes he could think of something witty to say in response. He always feels a little stupid in front of Shiro, who’s big and handsome and always smiling at him like he’s happy to see him. 

Keith’s long-since accepted that he’s not really anything too special, just a nobody running a general store to help his long-lost mom out. Nothing memorable. Shiro’s a friendly guy. He’s probably like this with everyone. Keith isn’t special, he reminds himself. 

“Uh,” Keith says. “What about you? How’s the farm?”

“Same as usual,” Shiro says with a hum. “Want help getting the apples into the cooler?” 

“Oh—” Keith starts to assure Shiro he doesn’t have to, but Shiro pushes away from the register’s counter and strides to one of the boxes, hefting it up into his stupidly strong arms, biceps flexing all over again, and carrying it to the cooler. He passes by the display cooler, already full of the daily product, and slips open the storage cooler at the back of the store, behind the employees-only curtain.

Keith hoists up another box and hurries after him. His hustle is worth it when he gets to the back room just in time to watch Shiro squat down and set the apples on their designated storage shelf. Keith tries not to ogle Shiro’s ass too closely or the flex of his thighs as he stands again. Keith darts his eyes away just in time to meet Shiro’s as he turns to him and takes Keith’s box of apples. 

Really, his crush on Shiro is a little pathetic. They’ve always gotten along well, and they’re friendly, but Keith never sees Shiro outside of the store— either for deliveries or whenever Shiro stops by to get some groceries. 

It’s not much of a friendship, Keith thinks. It’s Keith’s own fault. He’s never really initiated a connection with anyone on the island. 

At first it was because he thought he’d be gone in a few months. Now, after a few years, it feels impossible to bridge that gap. 

“Thanks,” Keith says. He shuts the cooler behind them both as they make their way back to the front of the store.

“Mind if I hang out here?” Shiro says as he gestures to the front bench. “I’m on my break now and I need lunch.” 

“Oh, sure— yeah, you don’t need to ask permission,” Keith says. 

Shiro wanders around the store to buy some juice and an orange, then grabs a lunchbox from his truck, plopping down at the front bench to eat his homemade sandwich. 

Keith’s fingers itch to put Shiro to paper. Truthfully, there are many pages of his sketchbook devoted to trying to sketch Shiro from memory. Keith never has the time to sketch Shiro while he’s actually in the store, so Keith has to work from the snapshot of his memory. 

Shiro has an interesting face, Keith reasons. He wants to spend hours studying the cut of his jaw, the gentle curve of his smile, the flick of his eyelashes when he looks up at Keith, dark brows rising with a question. Keith wants to trace the line of his scar— a childhood accident, apparently— and the adorable flare of his ears. He wants to put line to page to trace the perimeter of his body, the wide shoulders and strong arms, the prosthesis (a different accident that he’s never explained and Keith’s never asked about), thick thighs, what Keith can only assume would be washboard abs. 

Keith’s staring. Shiro hasn’t noticed only because he’s so busy trying to peel the orange in one connected spiral. 

“Oranges instead of apples, huh?” Keith asks for lack of anything else to say, just desperate to keep talking to Shiro. 

He cherishes these small moments with Shiro, like a window into a world he’ll never be part of. He’s always looking for a way to keep talking to him. 

Shiro looks up and laughs like Keith’s told a good joke and not said something stupid. “I like oranges!” 

“And you don’t like your own apples?” Keith asks, teasing. 

Shiro shakes his head. “I like them fine. Just felt like an orange today.” He finishes peeling the orange, setting down the full rind on the counter, arranging it so that it sits up like it’s full of the fruit still. “My favorite fruit’s a plum, though.” 

Keith doesn’t have any plums stocked today. He’ll need to fix that for Shiro’s next visit, he thinks helplessly. Shiro eats his orange and seems to take great pleasure in it. 

Another customer walks in then, taking away Keith’s attention. He leaves Shiro to his lunch, focusing on helping Mrs. Jefferson get her groceries, reaching the high shelves for her and selecting the items she wants. 

He’s drawn Mrs. Jefferson a few times, too. She moves slow enough that Keith can capture her in quick drawings. 

Keith likes it when he gets the chance to draw his customers. They aren’t good drawings, really, but it helps him stay in practice. He likes having something to do with his hands, in the moments when he can spare it. He has several sketchbooks full of customer faces— both his regulars and the tourists who come passing through. 

Before moving to the island, Keith would walk around the city and find little spots to sit— at coffee shops, in parks, at bus stops, anywhere really— and just sketch the people who passed by, always looking for someone interesting or unique or even mundane to draw. 

There are fewer opportunities for him to people-watch around here. Keith’s pretty sure he’s drawn everyone in Redbank at least once at this point, considering how few people there are.

Mrs. Jefferson finishes her shopping and completes her purchase just as Shiro finishes his lunch. Keith regrets when he sees Shiro stand, tossing away his garbage and scooting his chair back in under the bench. He seems to linger, like he regrets having to leave, too. 

Keith wishes he were better at talking with him. He always wishes that Shiro could stay for longer. 

“Well,” Shiro says, still loitering near the door. 

“Well,” Keith says. 

Shiro smiles and laughs at the response, the softest chuff of a breath. His hand falls onto the brass door handle. 

He looks at Keith, like there’s something more he wants to say. He sighs. “… I’ll see you next week, Keith.” 

“See you, Shiro,” Keith says. He waves as Shiro exits and sighs as he drives away. 

Keith was never really great with people. He feels even stupider with Shiro, always fumbling for something to say. He wishes he could be far more arresting and interesting— witty, clever, handsome. Something. Anything. 

He sits down at his register and does not sulk. Once he’s sat alone for five minutes without a customer coming in, he draws out his sketchbook— and tries to gesture-draw Shiro, the way he looked when eating his lunch. 

As usual, he can’t do Shiro justice. 

-

Keith stays at the store for a few extra hours after his shift to properly restock the beer cooler while Romelle works the front register. He’s taken himself off the clock for it, so it won’t eat into the store’s humble profits, but it’ll also just help make the store look better before he leaves it. 

Keith does this most days. He’s put in nearly as much work off the clock as he has on the clock. If his mother knew, she’d insist on paying Keith. But the store barely does enough business to break even and he’s not about to be selfish like that. 

Once he’s finished and says goodbye to Romelle, he bikes home, pedaling hard up the hills as cars whiz past him on the highway. Instead of parking at the little rental he and his mom share, though, Keith keeps pedaling, following the winding road of his neighborhood down towards the beach. 

It’s his favorite way to unwind after a long day. He leaves his bike at the little entrance, not even bothering to lock it up— who’s going to steal it here, really— and makes his way through the beach grass towards Admiralty Beach. 

The seabreeze whips against his cheeks despite the warmth of the day. It’s always colder when he walks on the beach. He shuffles over the driftwood until he drops down onto the sand, working his way towards the tighter-packed sand beneath the tideline to make his walk easier. 

He walks without purpose, following the familiar curve of the beach as it winds around the inlet. He can see the ferry dock in the distance, still a few miles off, and he uses it as his waypoint. 

Sometimes, when the fog settles in over the Salish Sea, the ferries will sound their horn and it’ll reverberate across the sea. It always sounds lost and melancholy and Keith loves those foggy days most. 

Today, it’s warm and sunny, a typical late summer-early fall day on the island, and Keith likes that just fine, too. 

About a mile down the beach, he reaches his favorite spot. It’s an outcropping of rock so high that his feet don’t touch the ground. He scrambles up it and sets his backpack down. He leans back on his hands, the stone warmed beneath him, and looks out at the Salish Sea with a deep, satisfied sigh. 

He watches some fishing boats float down the length of the sea, jetting around the massive cargo ships on their way elsewhere. Out past the peninsula of the mainland, there’s just the ocean. Endless, endless tables of water stretching beyond him forever. 

He comes here almost every day, hoping he might see orcas. They don’t usually come to this side of the island with all the boat traffic but he’s always on the look out for their spouts. He follows the Orca Network and has their alerts set to chime on his phone, informing him whenever there’s a reported sighting. They were apparently down at the south end of the island a few hours ago, so it’s possible they could be somewhere nearby if they decided to go north. 

It's okay if he doesn’t see them, anyway. He just likes watching the ocean. 

For all the restlessness he feels, there’s something about the water that can soothe him. It’s powerful and ceaseless. 

He unzips his backpack and pulls out his sketchbook. He can manage a few simple lines: the ocean, the land in the distance, the mountains. He can manage that much, he reasons. Just a little bit. 

He sketches. It’s not good. Keith’s long accepted that. 

He flips to a new page, abandoning his attempted landscape. He’s been working on a series of self-portraits lately, each page full of just his face. With each portrait, his face dissolves and erodes, turning to pebbles or sand or water. 

He flips between those sketches, watching his face slowly slip away cross the page until it’s more pebble than face. The wind licks at the corners of his sketchbook. He hasn’t drawn his eye correctly in the most recent piece. 

It’s the most elaborate project he’s done in a while. And nobody’s ever going to see it. He’s never going to do anything with it.

Keith sighs. He closes his eyes and feels the wind, his sketchbook sitting idle in his lap. 

“Keith?” 

Keith would know that voice anywhere, even if it’s startling to hear it beyond the context of his store. 

He turns his head and spots Shiro standing beneath the rock, shielding his eyes with his hand despite his familiar straw hat. His face is sun-kissed and the wind slides through his hair, making the longer bits dust across his forehead. The wind nearly whips away his hat, although Shiro catches it before it can slip clean off his head. 

He brightens when he meets Keith’s eyes. “I thought that was you! Hi!” 

“Hi,” Keith parrots back, still trying to process the sight of Shiro just standing there. Not that he didn’t know that Shiro lived around here— it’s a small island, after all— but he somehow never considered that living here would mean _here_ , that it would mean living close enough that they’d walk this same beach. 

He's so used to seeing Shiro only in the context of his store, and only once a week, that seeing him twice in one day is a little shocking. 

“What are you doing here?” Keith asks, like he owns this beach and somehow Shiro’s trespassing.

Shiro doesn’t seem affronted by the question, though. He just smiles wider. “I like walking after I’m done for the day.”

Keith blinks. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Me too.” 

“Do you want company?” Shiro asks. Then he blushes, his sun-dusted cheeks turning pinker in the sunlight. “I mean— maybe you want to not talk to people after your day of talking to people. I can just—” 

“Nah,” Keith says, patting the spot beside him. “Join me. It’s a big rock.” 

“Are you sure?” Shiro says. “I don’t want to interrupt your art.”

Keith startles. He’s never actually drawn anything in front of Shiro. But, then again, it’s a small island and people talk— of course everyone would know that Keith’s supposedly an artist. Shiro’s no exception to the island rumor mill. 

“It’s fine. I was taking a break,” Keith says, shutting his sketchbook. “Come on up.” 

Shiro really has no business making climbing up on the rock look so effortless. He knocks his hat slightly askew, but otherwise climbs up easily. He rights his hat once he’s beside Keith, and Keith’s not some swooning heroine who can’t handle a hot guy sitting so close to him, but truthfully, it’s a little arresting to sit so close to Shiro. He can feel the heat radiating off him. The back of his neck is a bit sunburnt from a long week working in the sun. 

“I’ve seen you out here a few times,” Shiro admits. 

“Huh? Really?” In all the times he’s come out here, he’s never seen Shiro.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Only a couple times. I mean, I thought it was you. I was always too far away to know for sure. And I didn’t want to bug you.”

“You don’t bug me,” Keith says, and it makes Shiro smile, a sparkling and sweet little curve of his lips. Not that Keith should be looking at his lips.

He snaps his eyes back towards the water. The ferry’s finished loading and is setting out towards the mainland. They watch it go by in silence. 

“I like coming out here and looking for whales,” Keith says after the quiet stretches so long that he can only hear the lapping of the waves on the pebbly shore. Cormorants float on the breeze a short while away, diving into the water and popping back up again. A woman walks by with her dog, pausing occasionally as the terrier sniffs at seaweed or discarded crab shells. 

“Yeah?” Shiro says. Out of the corner of his eye, Keith watches Shiro’s smile turn self-deprecating when he says, “I’ve never actually seen one.” 

Keith turns his head to blink at him. “What? Really? How long have you been on this island?” 

Sightings for the southern residents are near daily around here. Even the occasional transient pods get reported in the right season. 

“I grew up here,” Shiro says, laughing. “I don’t know… Guess I’m just unlucky. They always show up somewhere when I’m on the opposite side of the island.” 

“Maybe you aren’t looking hard enough.”

Shiro laughs, good-natured and sweet. “Probably not. I spent a lot of time indoors as a kid and as an adult, I’m always working.” He props one leg up, resting his hands on his knee. “My mom’s always telling me I have my head stuck in the clouds. Or apple trees” 

Keith snorts. It makes Shiro’s smile grow. 

“I’d like to see them,” Shiro says, looking out at the water. “They’re my favorite animal.” 

He offers it so quietly, like it’s a secret. There’s something charming in it, Shiro looking out at the water, soft-eyed and sweet, admitting that his favorite animal is a creature he’s never seen, that surrounds their island and its ethos. 

“I volunteer at the Whale Center down in Langley,” Keith says. “You should stop by sometime. They do lots of whale awareness and stuff. Can’t promise you’ll see whales, but you have a good shot of seeing them down there. Mostly the greys, though.”

“Oh yeah,” Shiro says. “I’ve gone to the Whale Parade every year of my life.”

“Of _course_ you have,” Keith says. “I bet you’re one of the people who helps hoist the whale float down the street, right?” 

“Wrong,” Shiro says with a sniff. “I help coordinate the dancing jellyfish kids.” 

Keith laughs. He’s only been to the Whale Parade once— his first year on the island. He’d walked with the crowd down Front Street, watching men hoist a paper mâché grey whale over their heads, trailed by little kids dressed up as jellyfish, pretending to float along in its wake. It’d been really niche and very small town, but adorable. 

It'd also made Keith sad, to see the faded old grey whale, made up of decades of newspapers, flaking apart in the sun. He’d escaped the parade and sat on the beach for the rest of the afternoon, imagining what real grey whales would think of their namesake being trotted around Front Street. 

They watch another dog with its owner wander by, darting in and out of the water, leaving pawprints in the sand. Shiro shifts on the rock, rolling up the cuffs of his jeans. His silver prosthesis glints in the sun. 

“… So why are they your favorite?” Keith asks. 

Shiro’s quiet for a moment and Keith worries he’s asked a stupid question. But Shiro just tilts his head, eyes sweeping across the water before he turns back to Keith with a smile. 

“They’re beautiful and strong,” Shiro says. “And I think a lot of people misunderstand what they’re actually like. They’re about community and protection… longevity.” His hand circles around his wrist absently, holding tight, a mindless gesture. “And… they can travel so far. They _do_ travel so far. But they also come back. I think I like that about whales in general.” 

Keith’s not sure what to say to that and he must look a little surprised. Shiro blushes and fiddles with his hat. 

“Sorry,” Shiro says. “That must sound really intense.” 

“I don’t mind intense,” Keith says.

Shiro gives him a helpless look, glancing across his face. “I guess not. You’re intense.” 

“Am I?” 

“Kind of mysterious,” Shiro says and Keith blushes at the compliment. He thinks it’s a compliment, at least. 

“I don’t mean to be.” 

“Of course not. People who try to be mysterious are obnoxious,” Shiro agrees. 

“Anyway,” Keith says with an embarrassed cough. “I think I get what you’re saying. That you can like… admire orcas. For everything they’ve been through and everything that’s happened to them, they’re still here. And they’re looking out for each other.”

“That’s a poetic answer,” Shiro says and smiles. Before Keith can feel embarrassed further, though, Shiro nods. “But, yeah. That. Exactly.” 

He uncurls his fingers from around his wrist and smooths his palms out on the rock. He leans back, his shoulder hitching a bit. He looks like a model, stretched out on the rock. 

“They go so far,” Shiro says again. “… But then they come back.” 

Keith tilts his head. Most of the people he’s met on the island love living on the island— never have a desire to go anywhere else or see anything else. Keith feels alone in his restlessness half the time. 

Feeling strangely bold, Keith asks, “Do you want to go?” 

Shiro frowns, looking at Keith, trying to parse the question. Keith supposes it is a bit open-ended. He hopes it doesn’t sound like he’s telling Shiro to physically, literally leave right this moment. 

But Shiro seems to understand, although the silence stretches between them again. The beach seems to swallow up the sounds around them, making everything hang in a strange liminal space. 

Shiro shrugs. “I’ve lived here my whole life.” 

It’s not an answer. But Keith thinks he’s found the core of it. 

“Where would you go, if you could go anywhere?” Keith asks.

Shiro shrugs again, but it’s a practiced gesture— meant to look casual and unconcerned, but there’s a pinch in his eyes that proves it’s anything but. Keith marvels that he can read Shiro at all, that he can see what’s hidden away. 

Shiro’s fingers curl and uncurl on the rock. “I haven’t really thought about it.” He looks up at Keith again. “You’re from the city, right?” 

Keith shrugs. He’s from everywhere, really. He’s not quite sure if he has anything that can be considered a hometown. “I bounced around a lot.” 

“Rumors say you’re from Sacramento.” 

“I literally have no idea where that rumor came from,” Keith says, but he knows it’s true. One time a customer corrected him, _to Keith himself,_ when he tried to explain that he wasn’t from California. _No,_ she’d said. _I read it in the Daibazaal Times. You’re from Sacramento._

“I just mean… I bet you’ve been to a lot of places,” Shiro says, watching the water again. Keith gets the sense that he’s still trying to be casual. “I can’t imagine you’d find this place super exciting after all that.”

Keith hums thoughtfully, unsure how to answer that. “Every place is kind of the same after a while. Like, home is what you make of it, I guess.” He picks at a loose thread in his shirt, if only for something to do. He stares at the glossy cover of his sketchbook, still shut and still sitting in his lap. “You make do.” 

“I guess I can understand that,” Shiro says. “Kind of. I mean, this is the only home I’ve ever known.” 

There’s a thread in Shiro’s voice, something soft and longing, but nostalgic. Keith can understand that complication— of liking where you are, but also feeling unsure about where you are. It’s how he’s felt the entire time he’s been living here: like what he’s doing is okay, but not where he wants to be forever. 

There’s a reason Keith’s self-portraits are about erosion— little flakes of sand chipping away from his body. Eventually, there’ll be nothing left of him. He’ll dissolve away and there won’t be anything left. 

It’s strange, to have the urge to say that to Shiro. Keith’s never really been one to admit these feelings to others. Hell, he’s not even said it to his mom. Normally, Keith would never think to admit it to another living soul. 

Shiro, though, is always kind to him. If anyone were to understand the ugly corners of Keith, then it’d be Shiro. 

He’s not sure why he’s so sure of that, but he is. Sometimes, Shiro feels like the only person on this island who looks at Keith without looking past him. 

“I don’t know where I’d go,” Shiro says at last. “I— it’s complicated, I guess.” 

“How?” Keith asks, and then flinches. “Not that you have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Shiro shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. Just… family stuff.” Shiro smiles, although it isn’t as carefree as his smile tends to be. “Only child of parents with lots of hopes for you… but an assumption you’ll stay close to them forever. That sort of thing.” 

“Oh.” 

Shiro looks at him, studying his expression. “I mean, I want to help them. I’m glad to help them. I have to help them.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says, although he doesn’t know that feeling well. His mom has never demanded anything from him, has only hoped to make up for the lost time since she’s been gone. His dad— well. Keith doesn’t know what sort of empty-nester his dad would have been, in the end. 

He turns his head, watching Shiro’s profile. The urge to sketch him is so strong at this new angle. He tries to memorize it so he can put pen to paper later.

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it through the rumor mill,” Shiro says. 

Keith hums. “I don’t listen that much.”

Shiro’s mouth flickers with a smile. “That’s a good thing. The old ladies sure do love to gossip.” 

“They really do,” Keith says with a laugh. He’s watched a whole group of them linger outside his door in the mornings, chatting and gossiping for hours. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” Keith says. He nudges Shiro, feeling bold for the gesture and yet finding it an easy gesture all the same. “Just so you know.”

“I know,” Shiro says. “You’re always nice to me, Keith.”

“Me?” 

Keith and Shiro talk weekly. Keith knows this. And yet the thought that Shiro would have perceived him enough or talked with him enough to have formed an opinion and perception of his character somehow shocks him. It shouldn’t, but it does. 

“You always listen to me and don’t look down on me, I guess,” Shiro says with another casual-but-not shrug. “Maybe because you don’t know the rumors.” 

“I don’t—” 

“I was sick as a kid,” Shiro says, like he’s just rushing into it. “Everybody on the island heard about it because I stumped the doctors. I don’t know. Most people still look at me like I’m that same sick kid.” He wraps his hand around his wrist again, that same nervous gesture. “Anyway, it’s genetic. My mom’s got the same thing, so I’m taking care of her now.” 

“That’s good of you,” Keith says but the words sound hollow, inadequate. He has no idea what to say and the words taste like ash in his mouth.

Shiro’s smile is kind, though, like he knows Keith’s awkwardness. “She says I don’t have to. But it’s the least I— what else can I do, really? You know?” He looks at Keith. “You’re here to help your mom too, right?” 

“Yeah,” Keith says. 

That he can relate to. Krolia never asked him for help for this long, always looks at Keith in the evenings like she expects Keith to pack up and go. Like she _wants_ him to go and live his life. 

Keith tries to remind himself it’s her hope for him to be happy. That it isn’t rejection. That she isn’t wishing he’d just leave her life all over again. 

“Sorry,” Shiro says, leaning back on his hands. “I wanted to keep you company and instead I just dumped some random mess on you.”

“No, I— no,” Keith says, his voice coming out far fiercer than he intended. He doesn’t apologize for it, though. He’s no good with people. Shiro’s probably figured that out by now. “I’m glad you would tell me something like that.”

“I don’t know why I did,” Shiro admits in a quiet voice. “I don’t talk about this stuff with people.” His smile is shy, then, wobbly at the corners. “You’re easy to talk to. You always have been.”

“Me?” Keith asks again, disbelieving. 

Shiro chuckles, and it’s a warm, honey-deep sound. It soothes something in Keith’s chest. “Yeah, Keith. You.” 

There’s something about the way Shiro says his name. It makes Keith shiver. 

They watch the ferry drive away together, the smoothing of the water and the soft ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shoreline. 

“So… Altea’s having a party this weekend,” Shiro says after a few minutes of what Keith thinks, hopes, is a comfortable silence. “After the farmer’s market.” 

“Do farms usually throw parties?” 

Shiro shrugs, cheeks pink. “It was Allura’s idea. She wants all of us to unwind and says it’s a good way for us to get to know the community better. There’ll be kegs and plenty of snacks, and a live band!” 

“Wow,” Keith says.

“Do you want to go?” Shiro asks. “I mean. You’re the community.”

“Am I?” Keith snorts. 

That’s another thing he’s learned about this island— it’s insular. It doesn’t matter what you do or how long you’ve been here, if you weren’t born here, you’ll always be an outsider. That’s fine. Keith’s used to being an outsider. 

“If you want to be,” Shiro says. He looks at Keith now, like he’s really looking at him. His eyes are such a distracting color, Keith thinks, unsure if it’s strange to be staring into his eyes so deeply. 

“I guess I can stop by,” Keith says. “Maybe. If I have time.”

As if he’s ever doing anything else on the weekends other than wallowing alone at home or trying to draw or walking on the beach. His life is pretty simple nowadays, not that it was ever wild and crazy to begin with. He was planning on maybe reorganizing the beer cooler this weekend, but he can do that whenever, honestly. 

Keith’s acceptance is worth it for Shiro’s delighted grin. “Really? Great!” 

Keith flushes to think that Shiro could be so excited. He reminds himself, as always, that Shiro is just being friendly. That’s just the kind of person Shiro is. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, feeling stupid and, once again, like he has no idea what to say. It’s hard to think of words, sometimes. Keith swallows. “Just, uh, let me know the details.” 

Shiro digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, an old model with a cracked screen. “You okay with giving me your number? I can send along the info.” 

“Oh,” Keith says. “Sure.”

He exchanges information with Shiro and hears the chime issuing from his backpack where his phone’s stowed away as Shiro’s message arrives in his inbox. 

Shiro checks the time on his phone and clucks. “I should be getting home. Mom’ll need me to make dinner soon. But…” He looks up at Keith with a soft smile. “I’ll see you on Saturday?” 

“Yeah,” Keith says. “See you on Saturday.” 

-

Keith waits until Shiro’s left the beach before he opens his sketchbook again and tries to sketch Shiro’s profile. He tries to capture that gentleness of his expression as he sat on the rock with Keith, looking out over the water, talking about his parents like it was an easy secret to offer up. Precious, in its own quiet way. Keith can’t comprehend how he’d be worthy of Shiro’s trust.

As usual, he can’t do justice to Shiro’s face, and with the sun sinking closer towards the horizon, he sighs and gives up. 

“Hey, Kit,” Krolia greets him with a smile when he arrives home. “Dinner’s almost ready if you’re hungry.” 

“Yeah,” Keith says with a relieved sigh as he kicks his shoes off by the door before trailing over into the kitchen. “Thanks.” 

His routine with his mom is a simple one. They live together because it helps save costs, and because rental availability is limited on the island, but they’re only two miles away from the store— it’s hard to beat that location. Keith often pops over to check on the other workers even when he’s not on the clock, just to make sure everything is going smoothly. 

Krolia often tells Keith he doesn’t have to worry so much. But Keith does worry. This is his mom’s livelihood— he knows what it means to have nothing. He’s not going to be responsible for his mom losing everything. He’ll do everything in his power to make the shop a successful one. 

His mom discourages him from doing that, urging him to only do work when he’s actually being paid for it. 

Keith doesn’t know how to explain the loyalty he feels. He’s still getting to know his mom, even after three years, but it’s important. He wants to help her. He wants to be good. Do good. 

He wants to matter. 

He hates that, lately, all he can feel is stagnant— stagnant on his work, on his art, on who he is. He’s been on the island for three years and has no friends, stays mostly to himself, and only has real conversations with his regular customers, who are all over the age of seventy. 

He makes himself a plate of food and eats dinner with his mom, the two of them sitting on the couch and watching the dumb gameshows that pop up on the network channels. 

He wonders if this is the life his mom wanted, too. She grew up on the island, although at the north end where the military base is— met his dad on vacation, apparently, or something like that. She has friends all over the island and when she’s not working at the store or balancing the books, she’s volunteering with them: local politics, mostly, helping to rebuild old homes or converting old hotels to halfway houses for homeless teenagers. 

Somehow, even those simple acts make longing bloom within Keith, constantly caught thinking about how life could have been different, if they’d found each other sooner. 

He knows his mom is making him stay here. He’s not sure if anything really is beyond Keith’s own inability to take a step forward in life. He’s here and it’s easy to stay here.

Keith uses his phone so rarely that it’s not until the next morning, as he arrives an hour before opening to prepare the store— restocking, brewing the one dollar coffee, and sweeping— that he remembers Shiro’s text. In a free moment, he opens up his phone and skims the text. He knows where the farm is and that it’s on Saturday, so it was really only the time he needed to know. Hardly worth a text. 

_See you then!_ , Shiro wrote at the end of this text, complete with a smiley face emoji. 

Keith swipes his thumb across his screen absently, tracing the line of text. Keith knows himself and knows how easy it’d be to blow it off and spend his Saturday night the same way he spends all his Saturday nights: staying at home and feeling like a lump on a log. 

He thinks of Shiro’s smile in the sunlight, that same quiet longing Keith feels reflected back in his eyes when he talked about the orcas. 

Keith bites his lip. 

_I’ll be there,_ Keith texts back and pockets his phone to get to work for the day. He doesn’t let himself think about it or analyze it. 

-

That Saturday, Keith heads to the farm at sunset. He considers borrowing his mom’s car to drive over, but since it’s only a couple miles away, he decides to bike it instead. He arrives at the outskirts of the farm just as the sun is setting, and he locks his bike up at a fence post, hooking his helmet at the handlebars and unclipping his bike lights, shoving them into the front pocket of his backpack for safe keeping. 

Keith knows this is just a friendly invitation from Shiro. Just a hang-out, not a date. But that didn’t stop him from standing in front of his closet earlier today, agonizing over what clothes to wear. 

He feels overdressed and stupid. He tried styling his hair, but he’s sure the bike helmet has mushed it up anyway. He smooths his clammy hands down the front of his button-down, plaid shirt and tries not to worry about it too much. 

His mom had been surprised when he said he was going out. That’s its own level of pathetic, Keith thinks, that even his own mother knows how rare it is for him to go out on a Saturday night, much less to hang out with people his own age. 

Keith’s never been great at talking with his peers, but the last three years have made it near impossible. 

“For fuck’s sake, Keith,” he grumbles to himself. “It’s a party. Just act normal.” 

It doesn’t have to be a big deal. 

He follows the dusty gravel path around the fenced off orchards towards the barn, sitting at the top of the farm’s hill. 

That’s when he spots Shiro. 

“Keith!” Shiro calls, waving his arm in an exaggerated wave, hand flung high above his head. He doesn’t have his straw hat tonight, and it’s almost strange to see him without it. Instead, he’s wearing sinfully tight jeans and an unbuttoned Henley. Keith nearly loses his footing as he takes him in.

Shiro looks like a goddamn dream walking towards him, kicking up dust along the gravel road as he hurries over to greet Keith. 

“You made it!” Shiro says, beaming. 

“I said I’d be here,” Keith says. He feels himself blush. 

He’s early, he realizes. He recognizes some of the other workers on the farm— the few who sometimes deliver instead of Shiro— and a few strangers milling around the campfire Allura’s building up effortlessly. Keith doesn’t understand party etiquette. He forgot the cardinal rule about being fashionably late.

Shiro doesn’t seem bothered, though. He looks downright delighted, actually, still beaming down at Keith. His cheeks look pink in the dying light. 

“Come on,” Shiro says, catching Keith by his elbow and tugging. “Let’s get you a drink.” 

Shiro waves to Allura as they pass the barn, the doors thrown open. The band’s inside, getting set up and tuning their instruments, the floor strewn with hay and some stray seats in the corners. Shiro skirts around the barn, though, leading Keith into a terrace, surrounded by trellises looped through with grapes and beans, garlic hanging from the tops as they dry during the day. 

“The farm’s nice,” Keith says stupidly.

“Yeah!” Shiro looks around like he doesn’t see this on the daily. “This is your first time here, right? I can give you a tour later if you want.” 

“Sure,” Keith says as they round the corner of the barn, walking beneath the trellis and all its twinkling fairy lights. This is where they’re keeping the drinks, it seems. True to Shiro’s promise on the beach, there are two massive kegs, but also tubs full of ice and sodas, juices, and waters next to a massive table of finger-foods and snacks. 

“What are you in the mood for?” Shiro asks. “Pick anything you like.”

Keith gestures stupidly towards one of the kegs, hoping maybe a little liquid courage could help him loosen up. His throat feels dry as he swallows, watching Shiro pump the keg before filling a cup for him. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Shiro says, and it’s so sweet, and so earnest. Shiro looks good bent over a keg and Keith tries very hard not to dump beer all over himself, so busy with staring. 

Keith clears his throat. He takes a long drink of his beer. It’s foamy, cool, and delicious, likely some sort of local IPA.

Shiro laughs and adds, “I mean. Wow, we’ve seen each other three times this week. That’s a new record.”

“Are you keeping track?” Keith wonders aloud and then blushes. 

“Maybe,” Shiro says and Keith can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. “Come on,” he says, nodding his head back towards the front of the barn. “Want a tour? Unless you want to dance.”

“I don’t think the band’s set up yet,” Keith says and lets Shiro lead him back the way they came. 

It’s a simple tour, considering the farm is a small enterprise— artisan, organic, and still starting out (relatively speaking). Altea Farm’s main produce is the apple, but they have other goods, too, like the garlic being dried. Shiro shows Keith the greenhouse where they’re growing herbs and more sensitive vegetables. There are the fields for when they grow the rhubarb, salad turnips, purple artichokes, radishes, arugula, kale, pumpkins, sunchokes, strawberries. Different plants for the different seasons. Right now, the fields are mostly pumpkins.

“And the orchards,” Shiro says with a proud little smile, gesturing towards the rows and rows of apple trees. 

Keith loves the way the apple trees look in the fading sun, craggy and twisted, like many arms waiting to reach out to the sky itself. It’s both inviting and eerie in its own way. Or maybe that’s the beer talking. 

Shiro finishes the tour just as the band finishes setting up and, it seems, more people have arrived. There’s a fire roaring in a fire pit and people crowded back in the drink area. Keith can’t remember the last time he saw so many people all in one place and feels like a country bumpkin for it. 

There are people dancing in the barn, following the sway of the music. Keith taps his foot without even realizing he’s doing it. He expects Shiro to abandon him now that his touring duties are done and there are more people requiring his attention, but Shiro lingers. 

Of course he does. Somehow, the thought warms Keith, his heart feeling fluttery in his chest. 

They get a second round of drinks and watch people come and go across the farm. Some people wander through the rows in the fields, others gather around the fire pit, others dance in the barn, and others still drink near the kegs. It’s a lowkey party, it seems, full of humor and good music. 

Keith doesn’t usually do parties. He has no idea if this is a good one or not. 

After about fifteen minutes of loitering around together, Allura calls out for Shiro to help her with bringing out more drinks and snacks. Shiro darts a glance towards Keith, looking like he might actually refuse, which is just boggling to Keith. 

Keith gestures towards Allura. “I can take care of myself. Go on.” 

Left to his own devices, Keith really has no idea what to do. He watches Shiro go and stands there awkwardly for a moment. The idea of mingling with other people is an impossible thought— he doesn’t really know anybody at this party except for Shiro.

So he does what he does best— strike out alone. He wanders aimlessly, sinking into the shadows. Once he finishes his beer, he wanders back towards his bike. Not to leave, but to unhook his backpack from the handlebars and fish out his sketchbook. 

He finds a quiet spot near the orchard and sits down, watching the partygoers. They don’t pay any attention to him— why would they, after all?— and so Keith has an unhindered view of them all. He watches them, sketching little gesture drawings to warm up.

He focuses in on one or two people, anyone who lingers by the fire or at the entrance to the barn, long enough for him to really put specific features into their sketched faces. There isn’t anything particular about the people he picks, only that they stay close enough and still enough for him to actually do some justice to the sketch. 

He thinks an hour must pass like that, and he’s sure it’s hardly the best way to behave at a party, but it’s how he’s handling it. 

He doesn’t expect to see Shiro for the rest of the night, so of course while he’s ducked over and refining a sketch of a short-haired girl standing in the light of the barn, he hears the crunch of boots on gravel, looks up, and spots Shiro making a beeline towards him.

Keith shuts his sketchbook and blinks up at him. “Hey—” 

“There you are,” Shiro says with a grin. “I was worried you’d gone home.” 

Keith shakes his head, standing back up. He dusts himself off absently, tucking his sketchbook beneath his arm. “Nah. Just hanging around.” 

“I hope you’re not bored.” 

Keith shakes his head again. “I’m fine.” 

Some tension eases from Shiro’s shoulders and he smiles at him. “Are you hungry?” 

“I grabbed some of the snacks earlier,” Keith says. There was the usual assortment of random snack foods— veggie trays and chips— but also some fancier looking items, like mini-quiches, homemade cookies, and vegan pigs-in-a-blanket. 

Shiro perks up. “Oh yeah? Did you like them?” 

“It was all really good.” 

It’s the right thing to say. Shiro’s smile goes goofy for a moment, his eyes sparkling. He blushes again, looking overly pleased. 

“I’m glad,” he says, “I made most of it.” 

Keith blinks in surprise. “W— you know how to cook?” 

Shiro laughs like Keith’s just asked a funny question— and, well, granted, it is a stupid question, at least— and nods his head. He looks even more pleased with himself, rocking backward and forward on his feet. 

“You really liked it?” he asks, expression hopeful.

“The quiches were good,” Keith says. He doesn’t want to admit that he ate about ten of them. He’d waited until no one was looking to witness his thorough lack of party food etiquette. 

“Thanks,” Shiro says. “I really love cooking. I— hah. Well. I always really wanted to do something with it. Right now I guess the closest I can get is to growing things sustainably.”

“That’s not nothing,” Keith says. 

“No, I guess not,” Shiro agrees. He tilts his head. “Were you drawing?” 

“Oh,” Keith says and blushes. “Um. Yeah. I guess so.”

“Anything promising?” Shiro asks, rather than, _Anything good?_ Keith appreciates the distinction, something warm and fuzzy coiling in his chest. Shiro just makes him feel warm and fuzzy. It’s not fair. 

Keith shrugs. “I’ve been, uh… in a bit of a block lately. Just trying to work through it.”

“I understand,” Shiro says. From anyone else, it would feel like a platitude, but Shiro seems genuine when he says it. “Do you want to walk a bit?” 

“Walk?” Keith asks and turns as Shiro nods towards the orchard. 

“You’re looking like maybe people are overwhelming you a bit,” Shiro says, then says in a low voice, “I wouldn’t mind a few minutes away from the party.” 

Keith hums, sympathetic, and takes a step. He props his sketchbook gently against one of the fence posts, tucked away from sight, for safekeeping. 

“Sure, let’s go.” 

They walk down the long path between the trees, all the apple trees lined up. The shadows are lacelike out here, the moonlight slicing through the leaves. It’s eerie, but in a beautiful way. 

Keith’s so afraid of eroding sometimes, but the reality is that it’s beautiful here. Even he knows that. He ducks beneath a low-hanging branch, the leaves brushing against the crown of his head. 

At the next low-hanging branch, Shiro reaches out and holds it up for Keith as they pass beneath it. Keith murmurs his thanks, but the word feels strange in the dark. Like language isn’t allowed here, like they’re passing through some sort of veil. 

The stars and moon hang heavy above them. The night wind whispers through the branches of the trees. There’s no particular reason why Keith stops when he does, only that his already meandering pace slows to something glacial. 

He turns his head and Shiro’s looking up at the sky, his smile slight as he counts the stars. Something about his look— boyish, innocent almost— makes Keith’s heart leap. 

Keith finds that he doesn’t know what to say, if anything. It’s not the first time this is the case when he looks at Shiro. Shiro just has that effect on him. 

“It’s nice out here,” he says in a murmur, the words splintering the silence around them. 

Shiro hums, tilting his head back down to smile at Keith, like the words are somehow a brilliant observation and not an idle, stupid sentence. 

“It is,” Shiro says. “Allura already has plans to expand. She wants to start growing lavender. Eventually have some animals, too. For cheese and stuff.” 

Keith nods, staring down the long row of trees. He can hear the music from the barn in the distance, the soft stir of night insects, but it’s otherwise just them. 

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Shiro says.

“Really?” 

Shiro laughs, again like Keith’s said something funny. “You always sound disbelieving.” 

“Sorry,” Keith says.

Shiro waves his hand at the apology, his expression soft. “Of course I’m glad, though. I always enjoy talking with you.” 

“Oh.” Keith fidgets. “Ah. Sorry. I guess I’m surprised. I didn’t— I mean.” He’s not sure what he means. He goes quiet. 

“I always like the days I get to deliver to your store,” Shiro says. “You’ve really done amazing things over there.” 

Keith laughs, a soft, strangled sound. “Uh, wow… yeah, thanks. I mean, I’m just doing what I’ve got to do. I didn’t really expect that it’d be what I was doing for a career. Much as it is.” 

Shiro frowns, eyebrows wrinkling. He looks like a confused puppy for a moment, endearing and perplexed. Keith feels all squirmy. He wishes he still had his drink to hang onto to at least give his hand something to do.

“You’re not happy?” Shiro asks.

Keith isn’t sure how to answer the question. He is and isn’t. He’s content and discontent. He feels like he’s in a constant limbo, unsure. 

“I’m just— not sure I’m who I want to be,” Keith admits and maybe it’s the darkness that lets him speak the words, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s Shiro. Once he says it, though, he knows it’s the truth. The guilt swims in shortly after. 

“Well,” Shiro says in a soft voice. He doesn’t try to dismiss the words or reassure Keith. Only listens. “What do you want to be, Keith?” 

The question slices through Keith and suddenly the warm night feels far too chill. He wraps his arms around himself. 

“I—” Keith stops. He doesn’t know. “What about you?” Keith asks and hopes it doesn’t sound like accusation, even when he knows it’s deflection.

Shiro’s smile turns sad and he shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

Keith sucks in a breath. Shiro said it so easily that it nearly shocks Keith, like there should be more hesitation there, somehow. He blinks at Shiro, stunned. 

“Me neither,” Keith says. He bites his lip. “Half the time… I feel like the cliffs here. Like I’m— I’m fading away. Like there won’t be anything else left of me, eventually.” 

“It’s not bad to feel that way sometimes,” Shiro says gently. 

Keith shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just— don’t know. I know what I thought I’d be and do, and now I’m here. And I’m here by choice. I could leave. But maybe I don’t want to and maybe I do.” He’s trembling, he realizes, only because Shiro makes a soft sound and steps closer, like he’s going to wrap Keith up into his arms. Keith kind of wants him to. “Maybe I’m not much of anything or anyone at all. I’m not memorable.” 

“Keith,” Shiro says, sounding pained. “Of course you are.”

Keith blinks up at him, stunned speechless for a moment. But they’re just nice words that mean little, he reasons, and pushes past that surprise. “I don’t mean it as some depressing thing,” Keith says. “It’s just how it is. Most people are going to go through life not being memorable. That’s okay. I— I’m fine being me. But half the time I wonder if I am me or if I’m just… disappearing.” He grunts, frustrated with his inability to articulate the feeling. “I don’t know if that makes sense.” 

“I think I get it,” Shiro says. “You want to be memorable to the people who matter. And that includes yourself. You want to do something you’re proud of. That matters.” 

A shiver wracks through Keith’s body and the urge to cry stings the backs of his eyes. He ignores it, although he gulps down a soft breath, unable to process the gentleness with which Shiro offers the words, for the truth of the words. 

He had all these plans, heading into college, of how he’d change the world. He still wants to, still wants to make a difference. But he’s here instead.

“You matter, Keith,” Shiro says. “You make a difference every day, just by being you.”

Keith scoffs, blushing in the dark. “Running a store isn’t really meaningful life’s work, Shiro. I save people a trip down to the chain store.” 

“That’s not all,” Shiro insists. “You give people jobs. You give your vendors a place to showcase their work. You revived an old building that means a lot to people. And…” Shiro hesitates, laughing a little in that soft, self-deprecating way of his. “And anyway, I’m always happy when I get to see you. Making my deliveries— it’s a highlight of my week.” 

Keith stares up at him, frowning at the words, watching the blush bloom across Shiro’s cheeks even in the dark. The latticework of shadows from the leaves above them does little to mask his embarrassment, but he doesn’t look like he regrets saying it. His eyes are such a pretty color, Keith thinks, staring into them. But of course he’s noticed that before. Of course he has. 

“Really?” Keith asks and nearly cringes. Of all the stupid responses, that shouldn’t be what he says. 

But Shiro just nods, earnest and sweet. “Really.” 

It’s an overwhelming feeling, even though it really shouldn’t be. At the end of the day, it’s not really a revelation. But it feels cosmic in its own small way. 

“I’m… Oh.” 

“You always seemed— lonely,” Shiro says. “Pretty, but lonely. I wanted to know you.” 

Keith stares at him in shock. 

“I get what you mean… all of it,” Shiro says. “My mom— I… it’s like I said before. She didn’t ask me to help her, but I do anyway. I could leave. Part of me wants to live somewhere that isn’t this island… but I don’t know where I’d go.” He stares down at his feet, shaking his head. “I love her. Of course I want to help her.”

Keith thinks of his mom. “Yeah,” he says. “I get that.”

“But I also think of the what if. And… if I could be doing more.” Shiro looks back up at Keith with another small shrug. “I wanted to be a chef for a long time,” Shiro says. “I wanted it for a really long time, but— well. Family.” He sighs out. “My parents thought I could do better than that. After being sick for so long, they wanted me to do… more.” 

“Like a farmer?” Keith asks and then cringes. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Shiro says. “And no… I mean, they’ve accepted it’s my job for now, but they’re kind of hoping, expecting, that I’ll go into something a little more— well-paying. Stable. That sort of thing.” Shiro toes at the ground, looking small. “I’ve been saving up since forever for something like culinary school. This job pays well, and I like it, but I don’t think it’s forever. I don’t— I saved enough a while ago, but, well… my mom got sick. And, well, only child.” He says it causally, but his smile is sad. “A lot of my savings have gone towards that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Keith says and it’s inadequate and they both know it. But Shiro just smiles.

“I had this dream to open a food truck, you know? Just cook what I want and go wherever I want.” 

“You should.” 

Shiro laughs. “Sometimes, I wonder if my mom’s just waiting for me to do that, honestly. I know she’s happy I’m here but she’s also just… wanting me to do more.” 

Keith thinks of Shiro’s answer for why he likes orcas— community, protection, longevity, travel— and thinks he understands it. 

He understands the feeling all too well. 

Keith looks up at him and licks his lips. “Tell me about your food truck idea?” 

Shiro seems delighted to be asked. They wander down through the orchard while Shiro explains his hopes for the truck— local ingredients and produce, a simple menu, the truck designed by an artist (“maybe you!” Shiro says jokingly but Keith thinks it’s not actually a joke), going where the wind takes him, maybe entering food truck competitions, or cooking competitions. Seeing the world. Doing what makes him happy. 

They reach the end of the farm’s property, lined with a tall fence that banks against the forest. Just beyond the trees, if they walked a couple miles, they’d reach the beach. Keith leans against the fence, looking back the way they came. 

It’s dark on this side of the farm, but Keith can hear and see the glow of the party— all the lights, the laughter, the music. 

Shiro’s looking at him, moon-soft and ethereal. He’s still beside Keith, just looking at him, as if waiting. The apple trees sway around them, casting strange shadows across his face. 

Shiro is handsome. He’s kind. He listens to Keith like what Keith has to say is worth listening to. Keith can’t fathom how he’s at all interesting to someone like Shiro. 

Shiro shifts a little closer.

Keith looks away. 

“I should probably head home soon,” Keith says, hating to say it. It’s getting late, though. He has nowhere to be tomorrow, really, and his mom knows not to expect him, but he feels overly exposed. 

“Okay,” Shiro says, voice soft and so quiet. “I can walk you to your car?” 

Keith coughs, blushing. “Um. I biked here.”

“You have a motorcycle?” Shiro asks.

Keith blushes deeper. “Um. No. It’s, uh… a bike-bike.” 

Shiro laughs then, but it’s a warm, rich sound— less like he’s laughing at Keith and more like he’s delighted and surprised. “Then I’ll walk you to your bike-bike.” 

They set back the way they came. It’s a comfortable silence, although not necessarily an easy one. Keith’s thoughts feel heavy.

“Shiro,” he says as they approach where Keith left his sketchbook. 

“Mm?” 

“I think— I know you’ll get that food truck someday,” Keith says. “And you’ll do really well. And I’ll be your first customer.” 

Shiro chuckles, warm and soft, his eyes gentle. “Thanks, Keith. I’ll give you a discount if you design a cool logo for me.” 

“That’s not quite the kind of art I do,” Keith admits, although the desire to do something well for Shiro is certainly there, shimmering in his chest. “You don’t even know if I’m any good.” 

“I bet you are,” Shiro says. “Or, at least, you really try. You don’t seem like the type of person who does anything in half-measures.”

Keith looks up at him. He tucks a piece of hair behind his ear and bites his lip, blushing and, secretly, pleased by the compliment. Shiro smiles. 

They round the gravel path towards where Keith left his bike. Keith fiddles with his lock, partly for something to do with his hands. He keeps spinning past the numbers for the combination. He’s cosmically aware of Shiro standing beside him, lingering still. 

When he looks up at Shiro again, there’s that same feeling, like Shiro is watching him closely, like he really _sees_ Keith and understands. 

“… Goodnight,” Keith mumbles, feeling like a coward as he looks down and unhooks his bike. He digs in his backpack pocket and attaches the front and back lights. 

“Goodnight,” Shiro says. 

He stays there by the fencepost as Keith pedals away, his tires bumping along the dusty, gravel road. When Keith glances over his shoulder, Shiro is still there, leaning back and staring at the sky. 

-

Keith rides home and regrets that he didn’t kiss Shiro when he had the chance. He thinks that Shiro would have let him. He thinks that, when standing there in the middle of the apple trees, that it was what Shiro was hoping for— what he was waiting for. 

Shiro, who has a dream but not how to get it. Shiro, who’s always lived here and feels just as stuck as Keith, despite loving the people he stays for. Shiro, who never laughed at Keith but only ever seemed excited to see him— seemed to think that anything Keith had to say was worthwhile. 

He realizes he’s tearing up as he gets home and locks his bike up, slipping off his helmet. Ashamed, he scrubs at his face, trying to blink away the evidence before he goes inside. 

His mom is working at her desk when he enters, inputting the data from the sales report. She looks up with a smile as he enters, but it’s dark enough in the front entry that she must not notice Keith’s expression. 

“Welcome home, kit,” she says. “Did you have fun?” 

Keith nods and takes a steadying breath. “Yeah,” he says, glad that he sounds mostly normal. “I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight,” she calls as he climbs the stairs up towards his bedroom. 

He can see the sea from his window, peeking out past some trees. Like most nights, he sits on his windowsill and stares out towards it, wondering where the orcas are tonight. He thinks about Shiro, likely still at the farm and dancing with some other smiling boy and falling in love with the life he has here, ready, maybe, to move on from Keith and forget him— to find someone else worth remembering. 

Someday, Shiro will get his food truck and follow his dream and Keith will still be here organizing the beer cooler at his mom’s general store. 

As he thinks it, though, he can’t really envision it. He knows it’s some sort of misplaced loyalty, or an arbitrary obligation he’s given himself. His mom has asked nothing of him. She never asked him to come here for this long. But he’s here. 

He wants to do good and he thinks he is doing good. He hopes so, at least. 

_You always looked lonely. Pretty, but lonely. I wanted to know you._

He imagines what it’d be like, in some fantasy world where Shiro has his food truck and Keith designs and paints it for him, designs the logo. He imagines sitting outside the food truck every day, in some new place, drawing all the strange and wonderful people they get to serve and work with. 

He imagines that Shiro would be so happy. Maybe he’d wear his straw hat even when not working in the sun. 

He imagines he’d look at Keith like he’s proud of him. 

Keith imagines what it’d be like to be happy, too. To have purpose. 

He imagine what it’d be like, to spend every day with Shiro, both of them chasing their dreams, figuring out who they are. He imagines what it’d be like to cup Shiro’s face and kiss him. He imagines what it’d be like to be truly happy— not an eroded piece of sand on a beach, but the expansive ocean itself, open and free. 

It’s a stupid fantasy. There’s no reason Shiro would let Keith go with him, as a business partner or otherwise. But it’s a nice thought. 

He should have kissed Shiro tonight. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there in the dark of his room, but he feels the urge sweep over him. Not just to chase after a boy, but to find that purpose, that meaning, that happiness. 

_Are you not happy?_ Shiro had asked him.

Keith slips out the front door, unhooks his bike, and pedals hard back towards Altea Farm. He forgets his bike lights, his helmet only half on as he books it down the street. It’s dangerous and stupid and impulsive, but he doesn’t care. 

He gets to the farm faster than he thought possible. 

Shiro’s still there, near the fire, nursing a drink alone. He turns at the sound of Keith coming down the path. 

“Keith?”

It’s all Shiro manages to say before Keith jumps off his bike and unclips his helmet, letting both fall to the ground as he rushes forward. He strides towards Shiro in three hurried steps. 

He grabs Shiro’s face and yanks him down, pressing his lips hard to Shiro’s. 

Shiro makes a soft squeak of surprise and then melts into Keith. He lets go of his drink and his hands slot over Keith’s hips. He grips tight. Keith’s heart leaps into his throat and he nearly pulls away, but Shiro chases after him with the softest breath— his lips gentle against Keith’s, like he wants to breathe him in. 

Keith’s fingers slide up along Shiro’s jaw and back into his hair, cradling him close. He gives himself to the kiss, melting into it, too. It’s easy to just sink into Shiro, to kiss him and kiss him. 

It feels good. It feels like the right decision, and Keith feels purpose in it. 

“Why’d you come back?” Shiro asks when Keith yanks back to breathe.

Keith shakes his head. “I had to.” 

It’s an absurd answer, but Shiro accepts it with a smile. He presses his forehead to Keith’s and it’s a romantic gesture even if it makes Keith go cross-eyed. He’s not sure if he should close his eyes or not, and elects to do so, his hands resting lightly on Shiro’s shoulders.

“I’m glad you did,” Shiro says. “I was kicking myself for not kissing you sooner.”

“Me too,” Keith says, the admittance quiet. He leans forward to kiss Shiro again, just the lightest peck that Shiro quickly chases after and deepens. Keith sighs, sinking into the kiss all over again. 

Keith loses time like that, just kissing Shiro. It feels good to do so, a sort of soaring feeling inside him. He hates to think it’s just because of a pretty boy, knows it’s more than just that— not just Shiro, but what Shiro could mean. What they could mean together. 

He doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he can picture what he’d design for Shiro’s food truck— something related to orcas, he thinks. 

He’s tired of being stagnant. 

Keith jerks back. 

“I have a boat,” Keith blurts out.

Shiro stares at him. “Huh?” 

“I mean,” Keith says, fumbling. “We should— do that. Soon, not tonight, I mean. Go into my boat. It’s just a rowboat, really small, but we should. As a— a date.” 

“You want to go fishing?” 

“No,” Keith says, gripping Shiro tight. “I want to go— searching. For orcas. I want you to see an orca.”

He wants Shiro to have everything he wants. This, at least, is a start. 

Shiro blinks at him in surprise— and then he dives down, cupping Keith’s cheek and kissing him again. He kisses Keith like Keith’s somehow offered him the best gift in the world, and once again, despite the warmth of the night, Keith shivers. 

But then Shiro wraps his arm around Keith’s waist and tugs him in closer, and Keith feels much warmer than before. The music’s died down in the barn, and the fire’s down to embers, but none of that matters. 

When they part from that kiss, Shiro smiles down at him, his eyes so soft and dark in the gentle night. Keith wants to trace every inch of him, wants to skate his fingertips along his jaw, trace across his mouth, skim down his nose. He wants to be absorbed within Shiro, as easygoing and unrelenting as water— that which erodes the earth away, rather than what’s eroded. 

He wants to be the water that surrounds Shiro, wants to be what protects him on an island of his own. It is, he’s sure, what Shiro would call a poetic thought. 

He touches Shiro’s mouth and feels the pull of his smile beneath his fingertips. 

“What day are you free?” 

“Huh?”

“For our orca-finding date,” Shiro says and laughs. It’s such a rich sound and Keith feels molten. 

“Tomorrow?” Keith asks and then frowns. “Wait, you work tomorrow—” 

“I’m free,” Shiro says and kisses Keith again, seemingly just because he can. Keith makes a sound pathetically close to a whimper and chases him, kissing him again. 

The night melts too deep. Keith doesn’t know how long he stands there, just kissing Shiro, but when he comes back to himself, they’re surrounded by the endless night— the barn darkened and the band gone home, the fairy-lights unplugged, the fire completely died down. 

“Oh,” Keith says, feeling foolish. He can imagine just how many people witnessed them kissing at the fire as they left the party. 

Shiro hardly seems to mind. As Keith’s eyes adjust to the dark, he can make out Shiro’s moony expression. He kneels, pulling out a flashlight tucked up against one of the log benches. He clicks it on, the tiniest circle of light illuminating the ground.

“Come on,” Shiro says, “let me walk you back to your bike.” 

Keith laughs. His bike is maybe a couple feet away. But then Shiro takes his hand and walks with him and it makes it feel less silly, even if childish in the best way. 

“You forgot your bike lights,” Shiro says with a frown. “Keith, you shouldn’t go on the highway like that.” 

“It’s fine,” Keith says with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“No,” Shiro says. “I’ll walk you back.” 

Shiro is, in the end, exceptionally stubborn, and despite Keith’s assurance that he’d be fine, Shiro ends up walking Keith home. They walk together as far on the shoulder of the highway as they can. Thankfully it’s late enough, the town sleepy enough, that only a few lone cars pass on the other side of the road as they walk towards the entrance to Keith’s neighborhood. 

“This is me,” Keith says as they approach the little rental house he shares with his mom. 

Shiro nods, but walks Keith to the carport, watching as Keith locks his bike up and turns back to look at Shiro. 

Shiro smiles at him, and then it’s easy for Keith to step into his space and tug him down for another kiss. Now that he has permission to do so, it’s a little hard to resist it, especially when Shiro sighs happily and returns the gesture, his arms wrapping around Keith’s middle and tugging him in close. 

Keith pushes Shiro up against his mom’s car and kisses him harder, gripping his shoulders tight to anchor himself to Shiro, to kiss him and drown in him. Shiro makes the most perfect, breathy sounds in the dark, and Keith’s addicted to hearing the breathless gasp of his name on Shiro’s lips. 

“It’s getting late,” Shiro says, panting once they draw back from the kiss. Keith’s lost track of how many times he’s kissed Shiro tonight. It’s definitely not enough. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, fiddling with the collar of Shiro’s Henley. “… I’ll walk you home.”

Shiro snorts. “Keith—” 

“You were a gentleman and walked me home,” Keith says. “So I should return the favor.” 

He takes Shiro’s flashlight in one hand, then Shiro’s hand with the other, and starts walking. He won’t be swayed. It seems Shiro’s more charmed than anything else, because he laughs and lets Keith tug him along down the empty street. 

They walk down the side-streets towards Shiro’s street, then stop outside the little house tucked into the trees. Keith’s driven by this house a few times on his way to the beach. He never realized it was Shiro’s. 

He doesn’t really spend any time admiring it in the dark, though, content instead to let Shiro push him up against the front door and make out with him. Keith clicks off the flashlight to save battery power, because he’s sensible, and then gives himself entirely to sucking Shiro’s tongue into his mouth with a low, pleased groan. 

“Now I have to walk _you_ home,” Shiro says with a besotted grin when they part. Keith snorts in his face and shoves at his shoulder, but Shiro keeps laughing. “I mean it! I can’t let you walk back home by yourself.”

“Well, I can’t let you walk home by yourself, either,” Keith insists. 

“What to do,” Shiro says with a hum, dragging his lips over Keith’s jaw and making Keith tremble. Keith arches, sighing out as Shiro kisses down his neck. 

It’s very distracting. 

“Come on,” Keith says, laughing too as he pushes at Shiro’s shoulder playfully. “I’ll run away and then you can’t catch me.” 

“I’ll catch you,” Shiro says, his big farmer’s hands sliding across Keith’s hips, his thumbs brushing against bare skin long enough that Keith can feel just how earth-worn they are. That, too, is very distracting.

“Will not,” Keith says and kisses Shiro’s jaw. 

“Will too.” 

Keith bites at his ear in response. His ears are so big and stupid. Keith kind of loves them, especially when the nibble makes Shiro gasp in quiet surprise. 

“ _Keith…_ ” 

Keith takes the distraction and ducks beneath Shiro’s arm, laughing as he makes a run for it. Shiro barks a shocked laugh once it registers and then he chases after Keith. It’s so stupid and Keith is fast, but Shiro has longer legs, and gains on Keith quickly. 

He grabs Keith around the middle and Keith shrieks a startled, delighted laugh so loud he’s amazed he doesn’t wake the neighbors. They go crashing onto the grass in Shiro’s front yard, Shiro twisting them around to take the brunt of the fall and so Keith’s cushioned on his chest. 

It feels so stupid, so silly, the kind of childish, stupid shit he’d have done as a teenager if there was anybody worth getting stupid over. Shiro, though, makes him feel silly and fun. Shiro makes it feel easy. 

He laughs in Shiro’s face as Shiro grins up at him and imagines how easy this all is— how he could just let everything be so easy. For the first time in months, Keith wants to draw— wants to put pencil to paper and sketch the way Shiro looks, just like this, bathed in moonlight and looking up at Keith like he’s something amazing. 

And maybe, in Keith’s own way, he is. 

“I like this,” Shiro says.

“What?”

“Seeing you look happy,” Shiro says and it makes Keith want to cry. He touches Shiro’s face instead, fingertips on his jaw. 

Keith does feel happy, a strange buoyant feeling. He didn’t realize how long it’d been since he really felt that, how even just the smallest bubble of hope could make him feel free. 

He tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear as he ducks down and kisses Shiro’s forehead. “You have to let me go home so we can go on a date tomorrow,” he reminds Shiro. “Otherwise you’ll never see your orca.” 

Shiro laughs, his eyes sleepy and warm as he skirts his hand up Keith’s back, fingers tracing the curve of his spine. 

“I do want to see you,” Shiro says with a thoughtful hum. “And orcas, too.” 

Keith laughs. He lets Shiro walk him home, the stubborn jerk that he is, and they kiss goodnight _again_. Keith feels floaty and fuzzy with all the attention and affection. He can see why he could become so addicted to it. 

“Tomorrow,” Keith says, leaning against the front door handle. 

“Tomorrow,” Shiro agrees. “I can’t wait.” 

Keith can’t either. Tomorrow, they’ll go out onto a boat together. Tomorrow, he’ll get to kiss Shiro again, walk the sandy beach with him. Tomorrow and the day after that, they can do what they want to do. Tomorrow, somehow, doesn’t feel like a stifling, mundane inevitability— but possibility. 

It's not the cure for everything, but it’s a start. Keith doesn’t have to accept his world the way it is, not really. He doesn’t have to put himself in self-stagnation, he thinks, studying Shiro’s smile. He doesn’t have to let himself be unhappy, he thinks, as he kisses Shiro again. 

Maybe someday, Shiro will have that food truck. Someday, Keith will be there with him. Maybe someday, even smaller, he’ll meet Shiro’s parents and Shiro can meet Krolia. Someday, he could show Shiro his sketches. He could ask Shiro to sit and pose so he can draw him. Shiro could make him and his parents dinner. They could kiss and kiss and kiss until Keith can only feel happiness. 

Anything could happen. 

Tomorrow could be anything.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) (including the [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/commentbuilder)), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates responses, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/stardropdream)


End file.
